Sunday, 12 May 2013

Hull City's final day round up

Hull City needed to match Watford's score last Saturday.....

As we approached the stadium, I told my Dad about the Brentford/Donny penalty/Brentford promoted if they score/miss/Donny down the other end/score/champions/in the last minute sketch from League 1 the week previous.  We then said "there'll be twists and turns today but hopefully not quite like that!"

Tempting fate?  Hell yeah.

Kick off, we're up as it stands but we need to win.  Anything less, I think we've blown it.
First goal in either our game or Watford's would echo around the oppositions ground within minutes and give the other a big lift or a big downer.  First goal critical.
Halfway through first half a whisper goes 'round the ground that Watford are now down the their third choice 'keeper and 15 minutes behind us due to the injury!  This fact made it all very interesting later on.  Then Cardiff started singing "1-0 to the Watford.....1-0 to the Watford..." yeah right!  Or is it?  Ha ha ha, yeah, very good.  Sheep shaggers.  Ten minutes later, Cardiff started singing "2-0 to the Watford.....2-0 to the Watford..." very droll....great interplay between both sets of fans that remained throughout the day.
Another murmur from South East corner gathered momentum around the ground......Eddie's ringing me.......yes, Leeds have scored!  We're up as it stands.  Pandemonium at City over a fucking dirty white shite goal!  Funny though.  The irony was not lost anywhere in the ground.

City sing "We all love Leeds scum, we all love Leeds scum, we all love Leeds scum...." the paradox makes everyone smile as they sing it.  Cardiff join in with "We all hate Leeds scum...." and the atmosphere progresses.

Half time, City 0, Chardiff 0.  We're up as it stands.

On the concourse at (our) half time, Watford equalise via information from Super Saturday on Sky.

"We all hate Leeds scum, We all hate Leeds scum, We all hate Leeds scum...."
All sang with still a wry smile from everyone and a sudden sense that a goal either way and we've blown it.

A Chardiff goal 5 minutes into the second half and we have, indeed, blown it.  As it stands.  And it's Frazier fucking Campbell to cap it all!  Bastard.  News would've reverberated around Vicarage Road, a big boost to Watford confidence.  We're NOT up as it stands.  Shit.

Whisper from North East Corner goes 'round the ground.....Leeds have scored again!  Have they?  Erm....really?  Rang Eddie.  They don't know about it.  Shite.  Leeds haven't scored.  They never do.

Ten minutes of doom and despair is suddenly rectified with a Protchthvwitzz equaliser!  Crazy scenes again!  But after the last 15 minutes we've witnessed, the realisation is that things can change pretty quickly.  Still nervy.

Nerves are somewhat restored with a scrambled shitty goal from one time boo boy (he WAS shit) Paul Mcshane!  Pandemonium as we sort of realise that we're up.  Nearly.  But it's been nearly for three weeks now.

baby, baby!

Jesus Holy Mary Mother of God.

80 minutes gone.  We're sorted.  Well in control.  Strolling to promotion. 

Minute of injury time left.  City going mental all around.  Probably get another one to seal it.......Prottchstchszvwvitsctz goes down in the box!  Penalty!  Yes, that's it, it's done, yes, get in you bastards, yes......come on....people on the pitch....they think it's all over and that...

At this point, we KNEW we were up.  We KNEW.  But we weren't.....

Meyler had the ball to take the pen in Koren and Brady's absence.  With people still on the pitch, players ask who should take it.  Word on the street now says that the DVD of Protcschwvshcthwitz shows him as the penalty taker for his former German club.  Bruce goes with this and orders Protcschthwitchitchsz take the pen.  Protcscsrwitsz is shite by the way.  We're up, done. 

Protschshwitszch's penalty is saved!  Bastard wank sticks!  Actually it doesn't matter.....34 seconds later.....penalty to Cardiff!  Good lord above!  Brentford/Donny......oh shit, Watford still have 15 minutes to score against a very very very shit fucking L***s side!  We've fucked it again, again, again.  Again.  Even Cardiff, who had been celebrating with us, didn't really react to their pen and didn't even take the piss that we're now "staying down".  Everyone looked at each other.  I mean everyone.  I looked everyone in the eye.  Everyone in the ground.  Everyone looked at each other.  Time stood still.  Everyone looking at everyone else.  Spellbound.  Everyone was looking at everyone else not knowing what the fuck was going on.  In the eye.  I was looking at everyone else.  Everyone else was looking at me and everyone else.  Everyone else just looked at everyone else.  It was not pandemonium as everyone else sat staring at everyone else.  In the eye.  It was awkward for everyone.  I had a particularly awkward moment when I looked at the bird sat in E3, Block 6, Row 4, Seat 14 as I'm sure I'd fucked about with her at some point in my life but couldn't remember where or when.  Or her name, obviously.  The bloke in North Stand who was sat in N1, Block 3, Row 8, Seat 2 can just fuck off and stare at some fucker else.  "What you fucking looking at?" I shouted across the stands  to N1Block3Row8Seat2 boy.  "Everyone's looking at everyone" he shouted from North Stand as it carried across the silence.  "Alright then".
That showed him.
Fourteen hours later once everyone had looked at everyone else, in the eye, and their penalty was taken.  Goal.  Shit.  The whole ground looked at each other not knowing quite what that meant.  Everyone looked at everyone else again.  In the eye.  Time stood still. 

We all looked at each other until it became uncomfortable and broke eye contact.  Another 14 hours later, although this time I blanked E3, Block 6, Row 4, Seat 14 burger, and we all realised that Watford definitely did still have 15 minutes to score against the uncle fuckers that are L***s.

Holy mother of God's big bangers.

There were about 25 thou there and at this point I reckon around 10,000 people were stood up on their phone getting direct updates from someone who could see a TV.  I rang Paul O'Grady's bitch as he was bound to be watching a TV.  What a good joke.  Great joke that one.  Unbelievable gag that one.  Thanks to Pauline for sending that one in.  Keep em coming in, a new fountain pen is on it's way.

A murmur......right 'round the ground....Leeds have scored!  They're shit!  But they've scored!  That's it, we're up!  As long as we fuck Man U next year.  Sorted.  "We all love L***s, scum, we all loves L***s scum..." reverbree.....reverbarbat....reverbibr.......echoed 'round the ground.  Smiles again.  That was close. 

Crazy day in all seriousness.  Great day.

Hindsight says that it was the best way to go up after a rollercoaster the time it felt like I just wanted an easy 2-0 thanks!  Glory.  You L***s bastards will be trying to get tickets to see the Tigers next season.  Don't.  My L***s "friends" tried to take all the glory, saying that if they hadn't scored that winner we'd still be in the Championship.  Nah, we we're up without it thanks.....come on City....

S. G.


Tuesday, 7 May 2013


I haven't been able to blog lately.  Some of you know why.
But I've popped back into blogland just for me. 

I haven't been able to blog lately?  Surely that should read 'lately, I have been unable to blog'?  Or are both correct?  Not really bothered, like.

When in Bordugal for the Euros in '04, we followed Engerland obviously and ended up in several places where you'd just never go.  One night of high alchoholic intake we were in a bar in which there was:

a) the second tallest man in Bordugal
b) the tallest man in Bordugal's brother, and
c) a live band.

And that is all absolutely true.  Although a) and b) is the same thing.  Person.

We watched and listened to the live band, they played a bit of soft rock type shite and the likes of Steppenwolf, you know the type of gig.  Upside down Ollie and I were perched up near the set at the end of the gig.  The band had a random, bits-and-pieces sort of bag.  The sort of holdall where you put odd drumsticks, Powerslave-type masks, plectrums and sweat bands for the sweaty bassist.
The bag was black.
On the side, in printed white letters, it read:

Rock Bag.

Rock bag!  ROCK.....................bag.  The sort of bag in which you put Quo, Motorhead.......erm......Saxon.....just fucking ROCK things alright?  Like Lemmy and dry ice.  The drummer came off stage and garbled something in Borduguese and a roadie asked him where he should put something ROCK like spare petula oil and he replied (with a massive pause in the middle) "Rock...............................bag".

So what turns up at Spurn?
Oh fuck me, you've guessed it......


Quo.........Motorhead etc....

Colin Occupantsofinterplanitarycraft

Rock..............Thrush.  Female Rock Thrush are easy to identify with their scaly bastard plumage, a red tail and purely mental back-combed hair like Whitesnake (Rock).
Mr Hutt and his thousand eyes were, again, responsible for this second record for Spurn.  I missed the first record back in '84 due to fingering Caz Tanton in her money box beneath her "Thursday" knickers, and the fact that I was only twelve and unable to drive.  Should Twelve have a capital?  Don't think so.  I'll go back and edit it. 

A thought for our little neice Evie if you will.